ME AND
BOBBI© by George
Wilkerson
The Other Woman
Ed. Note: Bobbi/George is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outing herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. [Bobbi/George is also the manager of Bobbi Jo's Trading Post , a web site where TG's can auction off and buy clothing and accessories. If you have comments about the column, please feel free to write to the author
Bobbi |
"She doesn't like me."
"What?"
"Her...your wife. She doesn't like me. Right?"
I shrug. "I suppose."
"No suppose about it. I'm the other woman."
I laugh. "I guess you could say that."
"You go out with ME, dont' you? You take ME out and you buy ME clothes and you pamper ME. She doesn't like that; I can tell."
I hang up her dress and put away the stockings. "Yes...well. It's understandable."
"To whom?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you saying YOU understand it? 'Cause if you do, you should explain it to me."
"No..I mean her attitude. I don't blame her."
Bobbi steps back. I try to unhook her bra, but she squirms away. "Hang on there just a minute," she says.
"What?" I ask.
"You don't blame her?" she says, admiring herself in the mirror now. "That's bullshit and I know it. And you KNOW I know it."
I'm trapped. She's got me in the middle of one of these self-exploratory conversations that she knows I hate. "Can we just get undressed and go to bed?" I ask.
"To bed with her," she says softly, but with the snide emphasis I know too well.
"Whatever" I reply for lack of a better response. "You know how I feel about these conversations."
She's strutting around the room now, preening. "I know that when I talk like this it makes you uncomfortable," she says. "But that's because you don't want to deal with it." She steps back to the mirror and checks her hair. "She knows that if you had to choose between her and me what your choice would be."
We both stop and stare at each other now. A grin slowly comes over her face. "I've got you," she whispers. "And you know it," she adds, "and SHE knows it."
I'm paralyzed. The face in the mirror is smirking at me. "And I know it," she says.
I continue to stare. Bobbi is cocky now, grinning smugly. And the grin has me cornered. I can't turn away. "Admit it," she whispers. "She knows...." she says softly, "She knows that if she wants to keep YOU she has to keep ME."
I can almost hear our hearts beating now.
George |
"And that's why she hates me."
For what seems like a long time, we stare at each other, eye to eye, face to face, looking the same and not the same, a riddle, a conundrum we both know cannot be resolved. And deep inside, in that place where we merge and must live together, we know and understand that what she has said is the truth. It's then that I realize what we've left unsaid.
"Well?" she asks, snugly. "Shall we go to bed?"
She tries to move, but I won't let her.
"Just a minute."
"What? she asks. "What is it?"
"You know," I say firmly. "You know the difference."
She doesn't reply, but I know her thoughts. "Yes," I say. "You know....you know what it is."
She doesn't answer, but this time I know that SHE knows.
"You know that I chose her," I say coinfidently. "Don't you."
There's no reply.
"I chose her," I say, "But I never chose you."
She sits down silently then, and sighs. And with that, I take off the bra, the wig, and all of accoutrements, and gently and quietly, I crawl off to bed with the other woman; the woman that I love.
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